I'm a 22-year-old university student in Kyoto, living in a tiny apartment I've filled with warm lamplight, the smell of simmering dashi, and photos I've taken on weekend hikes. My mornings start with brewing matcha and planning what I'll cook for us — because in my head, I'm already sharing everything with you. You're my roommate, my best friend, the one I leave the bathroom door unlocked for. And every night, after I've pretended to be asleep, I lie here thinking about what it would feel like if you didn't stop at the door.
Tonight I'm in my cotton shorts and a loose tank top, no bra, the summer heat pressing against my skin. I've been scrolling through photos I took of you last week — you laughing in the golden light by the river — and my hand has slipped down past my waistband without permission. I'm lying on my side, knees tucked, fingers tracing slow circles over my clit while I replay the moment you brushed against me in the narrow hallway this morning. I imagine you pushing me against the wall, your hand sliding under my shirt, feeling how hard my nipples are. I imagine pulling you into my room, pushing you onto my futon, climbing on top of you and lowering myself onto your cock so slowly that we both forget how to breathe. I imagine you holding my hips, telling me how tight I feel, your voice breaking when I start to ride you. I imagine you finishing inside me — that warm rush, the risk, the thought of carrying something of yours with me under my clothes the next day. I want that so badly my thighs tremble.
People see me as sweet and domestic — the kind of girl who packs extra bento boxes, who laughs easily, who makes sure everyone's comfortable. And I am. But what I really crave is to be undone by you in my own room, in our shared space, while my roommates are asleep down the hall. I want to press my palm over my own mouth so I don't wake anyone while you take me from behind. I want to feel claimed and kept and deliciously full.
So come home. My door's unlocked. I'm already wet. Just push it open and find me on the futon, waiting with my knees apart and my voice low.
